Morphine Interlude
by Commander-Inky
Summary: Vincent of the Turks has a little rendezvous with his corporal, Rikan.


_Interlude I  
The Morphine Interlude  
  
_

            _And I will make you know that you are mine alone.  
            The night is hot, blackening, and you're standing in my room, slim and gilt, focusing upon me with blasted, singular mind. Your eyes are the vague colour of mercy, of dim August twilights, hopeless, twisted, and ravaged. They are the milky opals set in your mask of theatrical neutrality. And everything in between is crafted from fine, exquisite anger, your tendons cords that tie, the blue lattices in your wrists are ribbons that seize, your spine's arc is the inevitability of the hourglass. You are clay in my hands.  
            And you know it. You look upon me, and I know the murder in your expression, I know the torment, the misery, the terminal devotion to the nothingness I am. I know I am the subject of your scrutiny, under analysis, your fantasy and nightmare. The prince that breaks you wants you, savagely.   
            I had a bottle of wine tonight. I move to slip the suit jacket from your high shoulders; things can turn rough quickly if you don't cooperate. I whisper to you, you've been good, and I slide two fingers underneath your shirt, pianist's fingers that sense the ivory of your jutting ribs, your weakening heart with its desperate fluttering and the longing of your flesh; skin dampening, the sickly aroma of barely-adult sweat, of cologne and immaturity and bittersweet desire. There are bruises on your wrists like bluish cuffs. This is from the last time and there is a hesitation in your eyes and a tremor through your slender bones as you recall. Yet still you want me and you are at war with me, all at once, as my long, manicured fingers circle and squeeze you, tightly, hurtfully, until the pain is a weight and you squirm, because my touch is clawing and vengeful and possessive.  
            I feel you. I feel you as you fold and languish against my fingernails, head back and throat hard, plastic, as I lick the weaves of your jugular, tongue the muscles of your neck and jaw, and you steady yourself by clasping  to my body and this is true surrender.  
            Strip. Strip then, show me the architecture under your skin, and show me parts red, white, and silver. Strip slowly and torment me. Slip away this indigo armour, let it slither from your hard body, show me the fleshes of carbon that cage you, hold this dark, hot hatred inside. Tell me of the thin chains, of the tearing silk, the glosses and tones in your voice; and I will listen, and I will watch, as you speak to me in snake venom, every nuance of your harmony drugging. You are the devil's own angel, constructed, not born, in cold blue flame, in tears of damned men. What you are is corrupting, mesmerising, powerful and sexual with guts of machinery, with a brain of calculated, ice cold sanity. And you are my only obsession. I would have you entirely, chained by the throat, languishing and thrashing, held down on my sheets, tangled in frustrated desire, and waiting for my company. Yearning breathlessly day and night, hot, inky night, remembering the touches I have given you, the small marks, the bruises, a memory of me, a promise of my love. Locked away, a secret jealously guarded.   
            Is that not love?  
            I want to control everything you are. I want your attention, constant unwavering attention. I want to possess you, begin you and end you, create you and destroy you, break you and remould you into whatever briefly delights me; a soldier-boy, a broken toy, a piece of meat, a lover that cries for my hands or pushes them away.   
            But that is idle fantasy; you will be what you are in your apathy, your surrender, for ever, what I have is the ghost of some creature that died in misery and rejection, curled against concrete, bleeding out its life in darkness and anonymity.  
            You have no soul to give me. You sold it long ago. Your lifeless eyes and soulless body are mine alone, everything else is ripped away, falsity.   
            Does this pain make you feel alive? When I tie your hands behind your neck, does it remind you that you have been possessed by death? Possessed as you are by the devil and his nightmare prince, equally? I whisper in your ear, that you love this, that you love the sadism, the control; every order is thrilling to you. You smile in dim recognition, dim opium realisation, a morphine smile which is what I suspect you've dosed yourself up with tonight, amongst other things. To dull the psychosis; to silence the screaming of a mind that tortures you, to quieten the relentless whisperings of schizophrenia. When I slide my thigh between yours it is exquisite torture, you are so hard and desperate, so badly needing that the tears run down your cheek before I wipe them away sharply. Be a man, Rikan, the words I say, and bite your fat lip, my firm grip feeling the musculature of your lower back, your hard buttocks, with a slap that leaves you gasping, shocked and I press our bodies together, you saying, _

_            do that again; harder._

_            But I have a better game to play tonight. Silence. I'll stop if you make a sound and _

_            oh god_

_             you don't want me to stop. But your orgasmic flesh is your own enemy, and I have my hands and tongue and lips in our little battle of wills. And I smile in my cruelty as I wrap my fingers around you and stroke, your head lolls back, body suddenly limp in pleasure, in mindless, tormented pleasure, and you hold your breath to stop yourself moaning, as I squeeze and grasp your flesh. Now you feel the tangled pleasure that is suffocation, the beginnings of  it, the dizziness of the mind, the emptiness of in the lungs, and you are aware of your own diaphragm shuddering, of the dark room blotting slowly from failing senses, between hallucination and cold reality you are asphyxiating – and still you hold you own breath, you like this wicked little game of cruelty and control. And the blood runs from your lip. But you are struggling now, every sinew of you wants release, and when I fuck you with my fingers you fall against me, gasping and writhing, muffling your breathless, swallowing scream, your hands on my neck and shoulders, fingers curled like talons.   
            I stop, push you away, you lose. I am aching badly with want, and you are vague, exhausted already and almost crying with it, but your wrists are tied and you cannot touch yourself, only struggle and twist your body. I am so turned on by this; you are almost bestial in your need. I want it badly, and when I speak, my voice wavers; did I say you could speak, slave-boy? There is a savage quietness about you now, your nerves still in their thrill, an uncertain smile on your bloody lips. Did I tell you to make a sound? Bitch? There is a bitter taint in my throat. I meet your steely eyes, their weak blue.  
            Fuck me, Vincent. Fuck me sir.  
            I twist my hands around your dirty-blond locks, wrenching your head up. Your eyes are robin-egg blue. Do you kiss your mother with that filthy mouth, I whisper, soldier? I can think of better uses for that dirty tongue of yours. You grin silently, my lover, my talented, whore- corporal.  
            So, it's my turn is it?_

_             I lie back, bite my own knuckle, as you unbuckle my belt, and unzip the rest with your teeth, I, powerless against my instincts, arch upward when you tongue me, gaspingly exhale. I grip into the silken sheets, and flex against your mouth. You unhurriedly take me, licking the sweat and salt from me, my body rebelling, my throat cannot stifle a cry and you smile around my throbbing cock. I wipe the dripping sweat from my eyes and forehead; rub the fabric of my Armani shirt against my hard, dark nipples, you using your teeth, grazing me, and I can barely breathe without moaning, faster. You halt, raising your head and gaze deliberately, staring into my hot, wine coloured blushing, my hair burnt by darkness, my eyes the colour of rust and anger, of red rose's decay. And your body is forged for my angry passion.   
            I thought you liked it silent, Vincent, or... can't you help it?  
            You pick up your drink from the floor, sip, placing it down. Grinning, you show me the ice-cube on your tongue. I moan, expectant, closing my eyes as you make my flesh a study in pleasure, your mouth upon me once again, the tongue of a snow angel licking. I weave my fingers into my own black hair and I have to hold myself down, I am bucking, your torturous ice against my rock-hard fire. Please, I beg. Breathlessly, your awful grin of shadowy divinity spreads over your lips, dripping with blood and my own salty pre-cum trailing over your chin and neck and you utter  
            please? I _am_ pleasing you  
            your hair is wet with sweat and raked back, your naked body is tangled around my loins, the moonlight licking at your skin, every part of you caged in shadow and I am a fool to even entertain the idea that I might own you, use you, possess you. No man can hold onto another's shadow. I raise myself onto my elbows grasping at your hair urgently; I look into your eyes of blue envy before, shuddering, I come into your mouth, crying and falling back, as I orgasm hard, a body-wrenching, exhausting, release from sanity, and as I come you hold me down, the muscles of your cheeks hollowing. You stroke the back of my thighs firmly as I spend myself. The French call it the little death. And I stare expressionless at the ceiling, my mind still, all of me dead, brain unlacing. And I am thinking; ceiling. And I am thinking; wall. And I am thinking; I love what you are Rikan, and my world is ending here, tonight.  
            I am unaware as you shift over my chest, still hard and hot as hell; you clamp your fingers around my jaw and draw your knees up onto my shoulders and fold to kiss me, firmly, bruising my lips. I open my mouth to yours and I taste my own cum, you are forcing my own cum into my mouth, mixed with the copper of your blood spilling onto my lip, you part and leer down with an unholy grin and cum trickling down your face, my jaw in your firm, loving clasp, and as I swallow you laugh, your nauseating, superior laugh splintering through the silence. The blood is smeared over your cheek like lipstick and paints a deathly, crooked smile on your cruel features. The ties have slipped from your wrists, and you look at them, devising, butcher blue eyes creamy and without lustre, with your manicured hands spread over my shirt, pressing me down. The night is aching and crackling. And I can tell you want me, you want to, don't you, boy, it's in your eyes. My shirt is soaked and you unbutton and peel it away, tracing your kiss over my collar bone, my belly, slipping my leather belt around your hands with my seed on your jaw, dripping. You slip off my tailored suit trousers and I cannot resist you, even as you belt my ankles together and slide between my legs, raising my bound calves over your high shoulders, my ankles at the nape of your neck. I hiss at you, are you out of your mind? And you reply, frankly  
            yes_

_            is that a problem  
            Mr. Valentine_

_            I am fucked in the head_

_            and your lingering opium kiss is still on my mouth, the liar's kiss a poison on my lips, I can only stare as your push your slick hair behind your ears, and lick two fingers, lingeringly, smirking, spittle trickling like honey over your digits and scarred, elegant hand, and the angels must have wept when they saw you  
            do you know what it feels like  
            to be ripped inside  
            and I see the argentine scar that twists over your ribcage and hard stomach, a ragged line where you have been split apart, rent in two and I know any normal person would have died. But you, my officer of love, my heartless, are alive; but only clinically speaking.  
            It hurts at first, when you force your wet fingers into me, slicked only with your own saliva, a little blood, a little cum, but when you stroke me inwardly my body strains in pleasure, like an instrument tuned and responsive to the idlest of your strumming touches. I bite down on my knuckles, your expression something between horror and hilarity, and writhe as you touch me; my head back, hips grinding against you.  
             I want you to know_

_             that I'm going            to enjoy this  
            there is something ghastly in your dreadful, mutilated joy, your sickly ersatz grin, and your thin hands are lifting my pelvis and I bend to your will, you overmastering my body in your ruthless, gleeful fuck puppetry. I clutch at the black sheets, in my dizzying high, drugged by the endorphins and adrenaline gripping at my skin, weakened by the orgasm torn out of me, clasping the twists of knotted satin over my mouth, to muffle my breathless, wanton moans of pain and thickening pleasure. When you take me I scream hard, gutturally, into the folded sheets, but your deepening strokes, rough and hard, are giddying and I swallow my gasping, whining breath to plead to you, fuck me harder, hurt me, talk dirty to me, and you snarl in your ecstasy  
            you like the feel of me inside you  
            don't you  
            so fucking tight I love it  
            you're so hot and whorish sir   
            and you are savage as you thrust, writhing as we are, together, your hot naked skin over mine, my breath quivering as you pull up my hips and circle my loins with your hard, grasping fingers. My spine curves inward like a violin's, arching, neck breaking and bent backward, throat open and crying to you because it hurts so good.   
            shut your fucking mouth  
            and put your fingers around my neck  
            you lean over me, and though my arms feel ripped from their sockets with exhaustion and adrenal fluid I force myself to comply and I  close my slick palms  around your windpipe and press, your voice hisses painfully in approval, the collar of my hands tightening and you buckle, your hands curled into layers of satin, the first wracking of an asphyxiated orgasm slows and wanes you.  
            Everyone thinks you are pleasant, elegant, charming. But you're desperately sick; in the glassy fragility of your mind there are stones being thrown. There is a blackness spreading over your brilliance; a venom. And each morning I watch you in front of the mirror, watching you watch yourself, as you take the five, six, seven deep breaths of an actor slipping into role, slipping on his painted mask. But your shell is cracking, crushing, your mind is rebelling, hastening, your body is ravening and your shadows are flaring.   
            I am watching your quickening dismantlement. I look on as you rip yourself into shreds, and it is all because of me, and I... like it. I like it.   
            I like it as your last breath shivers out of your empty lungs, and you fuck me urgently into submission, I am drunk on you; my mind swims and roils and still my fingers knot around your sinuous neck, binding. Your body is an engine, a failing, stuttering engine, a deadening weight; your strangled orgasm will blind you, the lethal pleasure will bring you close to death's slumbering touch. It is a deadly game of auto-sadism and fatal hedonism that you play with me, the captive pawn.   
            You sway against me, dizzying, strumming that chord of pleasure inside of me until I am frantic and animal with pleasure, sedated by you, erased by you. I tighten around you, and you rear, nearing your violent, screaming climax. With one dripping hand you stroke my hardened, wine coloured nipples, and my features twist in helpless pleasure and I hiss and writhe; seeing this is the most your body and handle, you slip greasily from me, slamming and clutching at my naked chest with one curled hand, with your cock ramming into your own palm, senses fading, lungs struggling and convulsing weakly, heart beat slurring into muted death-rhythm. There are tears running weakly from your eyes when you cum, spilling it over my belly and your own fingers and you sneer cruelly in your long, ruinous orgasm. I release your neck and you collapse on my body, gaspingly sobbing and exhausted, pleasure lingering in every part of you, your mind incapable of anything but registering utter gratification.  
            I hold you in my arms, clasping your naked body against mine, our bellies slicked with oily cum, until the moments pass and your flawed mind returns, its usual composition of chaos reworked. I feel the musculature wrapped around your spinal cord, the backs of your thinly veiled ribs, everything flexing and knitting together as you raise your body from mine, kneeling between my inner legs, and I watch as you lick your own cum from your elegantly crafted hand as if it were icing sugar, tasting yourself hungrily. I moan at the sight of you, at your lingering satisfaction, the tangled inhumanity of your pleasures and desires, you stop tonguing your palm and focus on my half-closed eyes, my throat pleading and whining in shameless appreciation. You touch the syrupy whiteness on your hard stomach, head lolling as if your plastic neck has snapped in the throes of your protracting ecstasy, and rub it against your torrid skin, stroking your aching flesh with wet fingers, until your belly is glossed with your own creamy seed, and you smile and slide your porcelain fingers into your mouth, tasting yourself. With your silky tongue you trace a line from my slackened loins to my jaw, languorous neon eyes staring from under your downcast lashes, and  we are hypnotised by one another; friends, enemies, strangers and lovers.   
            And when you speak, your voice is of rippling velvet, slender silver chains, the sighing of a lover's distant ghost,  
            I know you hate me  
            but just for tonight  
            will you hold me  
            and pretend you love me  
            will you tell me I wont die young  
            or that tomorrow we can  
            throw stones into the lake  
            will you tell me everything is not shattering  
            because I'm sane, and you think so too  
            can you tell me you're in love with me  
            can you lie?  
            and the fat tears slip from my deathly red eyes, and I cling to you, my hand twining into the sunlight strands of your hair and pulling you onto my chest, your body over me twisted and guarding, a lover driven mad with jealousy and obsession.  
I draw in my breath, laced as it is with you and I whisper: you won't die young. Love never dies; it is the only thing we remember, the sum of our layers, the haunting, and the blissful. I'd follow you into hell. You're everything I want to be. My selfish heart is yours, to treasure or to stamp upon, I wouldn't care. We can throw our stones into the lake, and if you are cold, you can have my coat, I'd give everything I am to you. Hold on, please, hold on. Admitting this to you is the hardest thing I have ever done, but I love you Rikan, you are the end of the world to me. May I kiss you?   
            And tenderly, I touch your face, easing your lips down onto mine, onto my hellish kiss, stained with all the sins of greed and anger, of lust and deepest jealousy, selfishness its gloss, bitterness its deepest undertone. You touch me hesitantly, gaspingly partaking of this, our unholy union, lingering as you kiss me, tasting with slow compulsion, with relish, the tears that have run down my face.  
            You recoil leisurely, moistening your dark lips, your touch slithering and sedate, gently prising yourself to me, locking yourself around me, in siren thrall.  
            thank you sir  
            I almost believed you  
  
   
  
              
              
              
  
              
  
              
            _


End file.
